World On Fire
by SparkleMouse
Summary: He's your favorite author, the only man you've ever loved enough to want to give up all the pain your mother's death has caused you. He's the only man who has ever loved you unconditionally, beyond just the mind or just the body.


AN: I have no idea where this came from except I was taking a walk and it spilled into my head. I've never written in the second person before (nor am I even that big of a fan of it) so that's a bit scary. I'd love to know what you think! - Post Always. Oh and I am working on that Confessions sequel. Slowly...

* * *

You're up against the front door mouth fucking the woman of your dreams.

She cants her body into you, keening and desperate and the near constant erection you've had for years is straining to break free. She has a tongue on her like smooth velvet, teasing and dangerous, and you've already shed her jacket onto the floor, piled in a heap at your feet.

She's a goddess, soaked and gorgeous and the highlight of every fantasy you've ever had for the past four years and your mouth devours hers like needed water in the desert, savoring and taking all at the same time. Your hands are roaming, touching, discovering; she slides her palms over your back and you keep reminding yourself _she's here, she's here_ again and again because you said goodbye and left her only hours before. You've conjured a million scenarios of her death tonight but never this and now she's against you and _oh _nothing has ever felt so good.

Your mouth is on her chest, tasting of salty rain, and then you remember, unsure of how you could ever forget. You unbutton her shirt and see the scar, jagged edges and the source of nightmares that always seem to outrun the fantasies. She lets you touch the marred flesh, her fingers gently gliding you along, and she turns your head to hers, eyes alight with fire. She kisses you and it's absolutely everything, your heart beating so hard in your chest that you almost wonder if this is what she felt the moment she was shot. The world stopping; the air stalling in your lungs as if breathing is a privilege instead of a given.

She smiles at you and you take note of the long lashes, the breaths of excitement and nervousness. She grabs your hand, closing them together in a perfect fit and leads you toward the bedroom.

You stand in the hallway with her, just staring, tracing the contours of her shoulders, the bridge of her nose. She watches you with gorgeous eyes, teeth gnawing on her lower lip, and then she's on you, pushing you against the wall, grinding her hips in rhythmic, tight circles and _shit. _You mouth is all over her neck and you're sliding your hand under her shirt. Her chest is heaving and you palm her perfect, full breast in your hand. She's arching against the wall, nails digging into your ass as she tilts into you and you're left groaning and going, going, gone.

* * *

It's your first time with the love of your life and it's messy and sloppy and so out of control that he comes before either of you has taken your clothes off.

You find relief in that honestly. There's been too much build up; he's your favorite author, the only man you've ever loved enough to want to give up all the pain your mother's death has caused you. He's the only man who has ever loved you unconditionally, beyond just the mind or just the body or just the need to fuck when the timing is right.

You know you're good at sex. Men have told you this in the past and it's a compliment, sure, but this is different, you _need _this to be different. You've moaned his name long before he was ever yours; let your imagination create the feel of his thick fingers inside of you instead of your slender own. You've gotten yourself off to the thought of him so many times and have a sneaking suspicion he's done the same and you can't blame him for releasing it all when the dripping tension between your legs has nothing to do with the storm.

He bows his forehead to yours when you step over the threshold to his bedroom, whispering your name in what sounds like an apology. If only he knew you were seconds behind, so close, teetering on the edge of a gasp from the friction alone. You press your mouth to his, feel the soft pliant flesh. Your tongue breaks the seam of his lips and you're learning him, brand new and filled with promise and then he's back to his old, cocky self, unbuttoning your pants like he's going to take you and there's nothing in this world you want more right now. He tries to get them over your legs but they're damp and sticky and he sits you gently on the bed, kneeling, tugging to break them free.

You're so wet – and this time it's not about the rain - that you shift and then the jeans are off, along with your underwear and his mouth tastes the heat that has escaped and you whine in the back of your throat because yes, yes, _yes_, it's so much better than the fantasies, than your own fingers. You lean back, elbows resting on the mattress, lifting a leg onto his shoulder. His tongue slithers inside of you, snaking through your wetness with so much goddamn skill you want to scream and moan and break every second for the rest of your life. He drags you closer and you're arching up into him, squirming and his thumb circles you more perfectly than any man ever has and you're chanting his name _Castle, Castle, oh fuck Castle_ as you let it all go.

He looks up at you with a satisfied smile, lips shiny with your evident desire, and you can't help but return it because Richard freaking Castle has just made you come and your life is suddenly so ridiculous and so brilliant and so _incredible_ that it's finally enough.

You sit up and look at him as you slide the belt from his pants, relish in the way his eyes snap closed because of you. You quickly discard his clothes and pull him down so his throbbing dick rubs against you and _oh,_ you're both moaning now and you wonder how many times you'll orgasm before he's finally inside of you, how long this intense, overpowering need is going to last.

"Kate," and your name on his lips, barely audible but laced with so much, almost does it for you again. He's a heavy weight buoying you to the mattress and then his hands cup your face, his mouth finds yours. "I love you, Kate."

The adrenaline is wearing off and you want to cry, want to return the sentiment because you love him too, _of course_ you do but you're too overwhelmed, maybe _too much_ in love and all you _can_ do is lift your hips until he's nestled inside of you and it's so _so_ perfect.

* * *

It's been 1,460 days of lust, somewhere around 1,082 days of love and now that she's here you can't stop looking at her, can't stop the way your hands touch every inch of her body as if you're molding her from clay. You've created versions of her in your writing but you never could have known it would be like this, that the way she opens herself to you is so beyond comprehension.

She writhes underneath you, eyes shimmering bright and green. You take in the mottled bruises but don't ask because this is Kate Beckett and she will tell you when she's ready. You think you should say something else, crack jokes because this is who you are but for once the words are stuck in the base of your throat so you let your body do the talking, matching the rhythm of her hips, a now choreographed dance. She moans and you love that sound; you love that for the first time in four years you are seeing her become the person she was supposed to be before tragedy stole her life and you lift out of her, watching her eyes slip open, indignation passing over her features.

"Castle," she warns.

And just like that you know you want nothing more than to tease her; you're desperate for her, but you need this, you need the two of you to become normal again. "You know what I was just thinking about?"

She knows this isn't something deep and meaningful by the tone of your voice and she's rolling her eyes. "Seriously, Castle? Now?"

You grin and you can't miss the softness that filters over her features and you breathe easier knowing that this is more than sex, more than a reaction to her near death experience. "I just wanted to say that-" You pull her hips up, slamming into her and she curses, head lolling back against the pillows, clenching around you. Your lips find the shell of her ear and you lick a smooth trail while your hand travels down, lower and lower until her tremors vibrate beneath your fingers. "The element of surprise is just so much more fun."

Your thumb presses against her drawing precise, concentrated circles and you feel the moment she lets go, nails tattooing your shoulders, legs wrapped so tightly around your ass that she's drawing you in. Her body is a vice around you and that's all you need because the world is spinning, and your brain is nothing but her name, but the smooth, lithe, incredible shape of her body. You empty yourself into her, mouth fierce on hers, biting and taking and so incredibly dizzying that the world is both ending and beginning at the same time.

You roll off of her when the air has returned, draw her into you where she's safe and alive. You close your eyes, lips skittering across her drying hair, when she finds your hand, squeezes your fingers tightly between hers.

"I came tonight because I wanted to, not because of what happened with Maddox. You know that, right?"

Your chest clenches because you didn't know that for absolute sure, because she knows you well enough to know that yes, this is where your mind would go after everything. She gives you everything tonight and you kiss her shoulder, tasting the sweet tang of her sweat. "Hm, I thought you came because it's been four long years of pent up sexual tension."

She laughs so loud that it vibrates against you and you think that finally tonight is when the nightmares will stop.


End file.
